


Sunflower

by dandyli0n



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possibly Unrequited Love, i think anyway?, i'm singlehandedly making it a tag, minbin nation rise, scar kink, this is a tag now., watch me spoil the whole thing in the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29010174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandyli0n/pseuds/dandyli0n
Summary: Changbin is a sunflower, and Minho is the sun that he seeks out.
Relationships: Lee Minho | Lee Know/Seo Changbin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	Sunflower

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this in a daze between 12 and 3 am after listening to Guns and Roses by Bohnes - the actual story has very little to do with the song! But it gave me the inspiration, so I'm giving it a shoutout.
> 
> PLEASE MIND THE TAGS - it's not spoken about explicitly at all, but Changbin has scars from past self harm on his thigh and they're referenced multiple times, so if there's a possibility of this making you uncomfortable, please click away <3
> 
> I would also like to say that Minho's reaction to the scars is in no way supposed to be an endorsement of self harm? I'm not sure if you could even make that leap of logic, but I'd like to preventively say - Minho's not excited by how he got the scars, he's excited by the scars themselves. It's his kink. If he saw a fresh wound, he would 100% want Changbin to seek help. It is not my intent at all to romanticize any harmful behavior.
> 
> With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy my vague wannabe poetic rambling. To be honest I've never tried to be this descriptive with sex scenes before, hopefully it's not too bad. Have fun!
> 
> MinBin Nation Rise.

Changbin and Minho are not really friends. They aren’t close, they don’t share secrets with each other - actually, even though their friend circles have overlapped more than a year ago now, they hardly ever talk. The first time they met was probably the only day of their acquaintance when they spoke for more than a few minutes at a time. It was also the first time they slept together, and since then they just never really _stopped_.

The thing is, Minho touches Changbin like nobody else had done for years before he came along. Minho touches him like he cares about nothing but getting his body under him. It's refreshing; Changbin was terrified of intimacy for years, always waiting for that moment when fingers meet puckered skin and everything goes still, but with Minho, it's different.

Minho finds him at the club, at a house party, at Felix's place, at Changbin and Jisung's place after Jisung passes out in front of the TV, he shoves him into whatever room or nook can give them the slightest semblance of privacy, and he kisses him with that same, unrestrained hunger that was there when they did this the first time, in Chan's bathroom at his birthday party. Minho has never kissed him any other way, it's like the hole in his chest that makes him crave for Changbin can never be filled, just temporarily soothed with the taste of the inside of his mouth. Changbin has long since decided that he doesn't mind being devoured by him whenever the hunger gets too much to bear - it's a mutually beneficial agreement, really. He's starving, too. There's a part of him that needs to be wanted, that wilts without attention like a flower without sunlight and Minho's like the blazing sun in the middle of the desert, making him unfurl into full bloom, but scorching him too.

Every time they do this, Minho leaves him spent, dried out from his heat, too full but too empty. Like the slightest touch could make him shatter, raw and exposed. He loves it, even though it takes him hours to get his feet back under him properly afterwards.

This time, too, he comes to Changbin like a wildfire, unexpected and consuming. It starts with a look across the room - all their friends are there, and Hyunjin is clearly trying to talk to Minho, but Minho's eyes are on Changbin - fixed on his arm, eyes following Felix's fingers as he traces the lines of Changbin's new tattoo. It's a wilted snapdragon across the inside of his forearm; he keeps his eyes fixed on Minho as he lies to Felix that it doesn't have any meaning to it. Minho licks his lips and meets Changbin's eyes and his forearm itches as heat spreads through his body from his expression alone, from the first touches of sunlight.

If Minho's dark hair is the night blanketing the desert, then the light flush taking over his face is the first touch of dawn on the horizon. Light ignites in his eyes as Felix's fingers gently fold over Changbin's wrist to get his attention again, sun peeking over the dunes as he stands up, ignores Hyunjin's indignation and crosses the room to where Changbin and Felix are sitting. He gives Felix a small, soft smile - so different from the fire lit behind his eyes.

_Just need Changbinnie for a second. I'll give him right back._

Changbin hopes he's lying. He hopes Minho will take him and trap him under his warmth for hours. That’s the worst part - they rarely have time for a slow burn, even though Changbin knows well how sweet being devoured slowly and deliberately by him is. It is always right there at the back of his mind whenever their time together is the shortest. At least it helps make things quick.

Felix's hand moves away and Minho offers his. It's a silent question that, in Changbin's mind, has only ever had one answer.

He delicately lays his hand on top of Minho's, but there's nothing delicate about the way Minho grips him and pulls him to his feet, his body losing some of its usual elegance and fluidity as he pulls Changbin along behind him, his muscles locked tight. He's a predator prepared to pounce, and Changbin can't wait to have his throat torn out, to be pinned down and toyed with and then left to bleed out.

They make it to a bedroom, barely registering if anyone else saw where they were going. A lock clicks and then that mouth is on him, demanding, plush but pressing against his with unrelenting pressure. Biting his lips and sucking on them - it's desperate, like he's begging for the taste of the inside of his mouth without making a sound. He's clawing at the sides of Changbin's face like every kiss hurts him but he can't make himself stop.

Changbin wonders, sometimes, what he is to Minho. Minho's his desert sun at high noon, beautiful yet brutal - is Changbin just prey to him? Just something to sharpen his claws on, feast on for the night? It doesn't feel like it when he touches him like this.

It's a question he would die to know the answer to, and a question he would rather die before asking.

He allows his mouth to fall open, letting Minho in and he wastes no time before diving in for a taste, finally letting go of his face with one hand to grip and squeeze at his waist with a desperate huff Changbin would laugh at if the pinch of pain didn't drag a moan out of his own mouth. Minho makes an aborted motion to pull him closer, then thinks better of it and starts pushing him the other way, in the direction of the bed.

Changbin feels the smile tug at his mouth, almost grateful to get to take a breath and a small reprieve from the scorching heat. His arms curl around Minho's neck to keep him close as he bites down on the edge of Changbin's smile, grips his hips with both hands to guide him better.

They stop at the edge of it, their mouths just resting together, breathing into each other.

For a second Changbin thinks Minho is going to do the unthinkable and speak to him, but then he's pushing Changbin's arms away, and then he's pushing at him, and then he's free falling against the mattress, the helpless moment of weightless disorientation intoxicating, but no better than the feeling of the sheets shifting under him as Minho settles on top of him. There's nothing better. Nothing warmer, nothing sweeter, nothing as breathtaking as Minho's body above his.

He reaches out to touch, untuck his shirt and run his hands up his abdomen, but Minho startles him by grabbing his wrist, pinning it next to his head. Being pinned is nothing new - Minho leaning down to nose at his healed tattoo, to drag his tongue over it, suck on it, definitely is.

Changbin watches with wide-eyed fascination the reverence with which Minho lavishes every inch of his inked skin. In his mind's eye, he sees the snapdragon bloom healthy and bright under Minho's mouth again, sustained by the heat of his mouth.

Eventually, Minho's mouth comes to rest in the crook of Changbin's elbow, and he breathes, ragged like he's just ran a mile. His eyes flick up to Changbin and they stare at each other for a long, silent moment. There's the familiar daze and desperation in Minho's eyes, the crazed hunger, but there's a hint of vulnerability. Like he just handed Changbin a loaded gun.

He would rather set it off in his own mouth than pull the trigger on Minho, and he wonders if the look in his own eyes says as much.

Whatever response Minho finds on his face, he surges up to capture his mouth once more, sloppy with enthusiasm and Changbin can't shake the feeling that he's trying to erase the memory of what just happened from Changbin's mind - if that's his goal, he's failing; Minho's saliva cooling on his arm won't let him forget, and neither will the hand still pinning him down, fingers now intertwined with his.

The other hand finds its way down, drags firmly over the curve of his biceps, his chest, squeezing firmly before making its way down to tug his shirt up. Changbin's breath hitches, like it always does, never quite soothed by the knowledge that this is Minho.

And Minho is different.

Because when he sees the scarring across Changbin's stomach, he doesn't look at him with pity. Doesn't avoid touching him there. Doesn't avoid looking at it.

He pauses, yes, when he sits up on his knees to look down at him and yes, his first touch is just as delicate as it would be with the others.

But Changbin knows that the shuddering breath that escapes him isn't caused by distress, or disgust - not when the proof to the contrary twitches slightly where it's trapped by the fabric of Minho's pants, right in Changbin's line of vision - he knows that the gentleness of that first touch is nothing but a tease for the both of them, not borne of hesitation, but of a cruel dedication to patience.

Minho's hands are always velvet soft, and the sensation of his skin dragging against Changbin's is heavenly, simple as the touch is, just dragging his palms up Changbin's stomach, feeling the dips and ridges where the wounds didn't heal properly, gliding over the bone-white smoothness where they did. It leaves them both shuddering, and Changbin squeezes Minho's hand helplessly, whining and pushing his hips up, to get some relief, any relief, from the restless feeling that overtakes his entire body.

Relief comes in the form of Minho's mouth on his body, again, lips following the trail one of his hands scorches down his stomach as it travels back towards his hips, Minho biting down sharply as his fingers rest on the waistband of his pants, popping the button and dragging his zipper down while Changbin groans and grabs at his hair. He pulls at it freely as his head gets muddled with pleasure, more kisses and bites and sucks peppered over the skin on his stomach while Minho's hands alternate between undressing him and relieving the pressure where he needs it the most, pressing and rubbing just enough to make his head spin. He's barely aware of the noises he's making, but when he makes a whining noise of protest as Minho's mouth leaves him long enough for him to get rid of Changbin's pants, his voice feels raw already.

He looks at Minho through hazy eyes, but his eyes are fixed on Changbin's thighs, and he resettles himself until he's between them, still staring at them, transfixed as he undoes his own pants and tosses his shirt to the side, like him taking his clothes off is a bare necessity and not one of the most breathtaking sights Changbin has ever had the privilege of bearing witness too. His mouth barely gets the chance to go dry at the sight of the interplay of light and shadow on the planes of Minho's body, his defined muscle the perfect canvas for the orange light of the sunset outside to paint on, when his legs are pushed open further, embarrassingly, obscenely wide but that thought goes out the window the second Minho's mouth finds its second favorite place, the patch on the inside of his left thigh where Changbin's scars led to more scars. He sucks at it, making Changbin cry out and reach for his hair again, drag his fingers over the back of his head. His hips buck and tremble but he knows he won't find real relief until Minho is ready, even as one of his hands leaves Changbin's thigh to pull his boxers down and provide him some friction - it's dry and a little uncomfortable, but he can't get himself to let go do Minho long enough to at least provide some spit to ease the slide, so instead he gasps and whines at the discomfort, squirms as pleasure mixes with desperation mixes with a hint of pain, the sunlight slowly enveloping him, teasing his petals open, making him unravel slowly as the world narrows to the twin sensations of wet and dry, slick and silken, velvety but dragging with each pass. He's not even sure if he's breathing.

Then one of those sensations is gone, and he's suspended in a moment of panic before his vision comes back to him, split second before he feels the wetness touch his heated skin. He blinks his eyes clear to see the string of saliva drip down from Minho's mouth onto his cock, then throws his head back when the image causes even more of a head rush, especially when the glide suddenly becomes smoother, the edge between discomfort and pleasure smoothing over a bit. Only Minho's fingers on his chin make him tilt his head back down when he moves back over him to bite more kisses from his lips, his hand speeding up as he lets Changbin's hands finally roam over his body, his chest and stomach. It makes him shiver, Minho is always ticklish and sensitive when he's being touched himself. A twist of Minho's wrist has Changbin digging his fingers into the swell of his ass, making Minho's hips stutter downward in response, and he feels oddly desperate when he lifts his hand to press it against the side of Minho's face, his thumb pressing on Minho's bottom lip to stop him from trying to keep kissing Changbin.

He stares into his eyes and this time he knows Minho can see the urgency in them, can see the need in the tremble of his lips, could probably taste the _please_ on his tongue before he even pulled away.

Minho stares back at him, one of his hands continuing its rhythm, the other coming to rest on the wrist of the hand he's holding up to Minho's face - then he pauses, Changbin can tell the very second he stops breathing, can feel every second he doesn't move the hand on his cock in a painful, hot throb.

Then the fingers of the hand holding his wrist slide delicately down his wrist to his forearm, Minho's eyes leaving Changbin's to watch them smooth over the inked skin.

Changbin watches with him, imagines he can smell the petals as they're crushed beneath Minho's careful fingers. Wonders if flowers that would bloom under Minho's light would smell like his sweat if they would smell like sex; smell like his cologne. Wonders if Minho would ever think those flowers were beautiful without his mind clouded with desire.

His eyes flicker over to Minho's face and he wonders.

"Please." They never talk. "Minho." They never need to.

He isn't sure what he's hoping to find on Minho's face, but the look of pain and shame that seems to overtake it before he can stop it definitely isn't anything like what he expected. He watches Minho force his face back into a look of absolute, unshakeable focus, watches him meet his eyes and give a small nod before he lets his arm go, his hand on Changbin's cock mercifully resuming its ministrations as he moves back to hover over Changbin's face.

"How?" There's nothing in Minho's voice but heat and tension - Changbin realizes he hasn't been touched since this started, reaches down to remedy the situation immediately as he bites his lip.

"I can take you. I won't need much prep."

He knew Minho was going to be at this gathering, after all. And it's been weeks since they last even saw each other. Any thought of embarrassment at how much he counted on this happening is shattered when Minho sits up and pulls a condom out of the pocket of his pants. He wasn't the only one.

He wrestles with that knowledge while he waits for Minho to remove his pants, steal a bottle lube from the nightstand - they've done this in here before, he realizes. Months ago. This has been going on for _months_. His hands shake a little as he removes the rest of his clothes, another little temor of shock going through him when he realizes Minho looks just as lost as he does, that this new ground they've found themselves on feels like thin ice to both of them.

As Minho remains frozen next to the bed, Changbin decides to take another leap of faith and like a sunflower he turns in the direction of the sun, shifts on the bed until his legs are hanging down the edge and he curls his petals out, reaches for Minho's wrist and pulls at him, his face open, ready to receive his sunlight.

This time when Minho comes to stand between his legs and hold his face still as he graces his mouth with a slow, languid kiss, it feels like the first kiss of sunlight in spring warming his face. It's different - it doesn't bring with it the same painful, scorching heat that leaves him wide open and wanting. It leaves him loose, in full bloom, face encased in Minho's velvet hold, open delicately, not with the same violent obscenity like usual.

It feels like a step in a different direction, ever closer to the edge of a cliff he doesn't know if he's brave enough to throw himself off. Instead of stepping even closer and leaning in for another taste of his own destruction, he pulls away from the softness and the warmth, pushes himself further up on the bed and lays himself out like a present, scars on full display, legs spread and hands by his head, waiting to be taken or crushed further into the sheets, pulled up over his head or guided to hold onto the surface of the sun.

He doesn't look at Minho's face, doesn't think he will ever be ready to know which expression settles on his face for the full minute for which nothing changes. It's like being suspended mid-fall again and it has Changbin breath shortening again even though there isn't a single finger touching him. He twitches and struggles to keep still as he waits for the sun to come up again.

Then a hand trails up from his knee across the inside of his thigh, fingertips dig into the mess of scars there and he feels a sound escape his mouth that's not unlike a sob, his body arching, once again desperate to be close to the sun. Minho makes a shushing noise, soothing the same spot he just abused with a caress, pressing his mouth against the side of Changbin's neck, just resting against the inky black flames that wrap around his neck from the back, the first tattoo he ever got, and the most personal. He raises a hand to grip at Minho's shoulder as he hears the cap on the lube pop, stares at the wilted snapdragon again and wonders if that's still true.

Minho pulls away for a moment and then Changbin's mind goes hazy again as he trails a path of wet kisses down his chest, fingers working him open, careful but efficient. They've been doing this for so long, he has Changbin's body memorized, the language of his gasps and soft whines as familiar to him as the lyrics of his favorite songs. Changbin feels understood without having to say a word when it's like this, and it's an infinitely freeing feeling.

He stares down at Minho, at the familiar slope of his nose and his glazed over eyes that close as his mouth glides over a nipple, squint a little as his tongue flicks over it, as he pinches it between his teeth. Changbin forces his eyes to stay open, to watch his own nails dig into the meat of Minho's shoulder. He drags a red trail across it and imagines leaving a path of snapdragon petals instead like inky black kisses settling into Minho's skin.

It's a blur of sensation after that, hot and cold and pain and pleasure until everything is fuzzy at the edges and Minho's name scratches his throat as it makes its way up and through his mouth, hanging in the space between them until it's snatched up in another bruising kiss and then there's hot, insistent pressure on his rim, a slick, velvety drag and wet breath on his cheek where Minho rests his lips against Changbin's cheek bone. They rest together, heavy breathing syncing up for a perfect second, their fingers intertwining on one side, Changbin's fingers squeezing at the biceps of the one that's propping Minho up. He's warm to the touch, a little slick with sweat. Changbin wants to put his mouth on his skin, wants to suck and bite on it, but he knows he's not really expected to, Minho’s the one who's here to feast and unless they can sink their teeth into each other at the same time, Changbin's mouth on him won't help the itch Minho comes only to him to scratch.

Minho beats him to the punch anyway, leaning down as he pulls out, nipping at the skin of Changbin's throat as he pushes back in. The hand Changbin had on his arm grips at his hair instead. Minho is always graceful yet powerful, but Changbin knows he never appreciates it more than when Minho is inside him, moving so fluidly it feels like he's flowing against him, a rippling current slamming against the dam of Changbin's body in a rhythm that feels natural, inevitable, just like the swell of sensation like a rising tide at Changbin's hips, making him desperate to be closer, to feel more, to push against the current. He scrambles to find purchase on the sheets under them, tries to move against Minho in return, but it's like he can barely get his body to work through the haze of pleasure and he gives up eventually, only weakly pushing back as he stops trying to grab at the bed, gripping himself in a tight grip instead, the pinch of dry discomfort there again, but he keeps at it anyway, can't fathom letting go of Minho's hand to use the one that's dirtied with lubricant, doesn't want to pause even for a second to look for the bottle.

In the end, Minho makes the decision for him, slows his hips, just grinding into him, his own eyes closing with the feeling of it as he lifts himself up, the shift in the angle making Changbin's hand stutter to a stop as he catches his breath, then Minho's leaning over him with the bottle in his hand, both of them watching the sticky liquid drip down, over Changbin's hot skin, making him hiss at the differences in temperature. He trembles as he finally moves his hand again, the relief of finally getting the wet friction he has been craving forcing his eyes close and his mouth open, so he feels rather than sees Minho lean over again, lick at the flames on Changbin's neck as if to soothe, even though all it does is make the fire burn hotter. When he sits up again and picks up his pace, another shudder goes through Changbin, the combined feelings of his hand tugging at his own cock and of Minho inside him threatening to overwhelm him again. His world narrows to a mess of sweet, smooth drags, tugs, twists, wetness and overwhelming warmth. Firm press of Minho's fingers on his thighs as he rearranges them the way he needs, making Changbin whine again, helpless to stop himself, his own hand grabbing at Minho's own thigh and squeezing just to have something to hold. He wishes Minho would hold his hand again but he says nothing.

He knows when Minho's pleasure crests, not because by then he's quickened his pace to the point where Changbin can't keep up anymore, just lay there and take it, but because when he forces his eyes open, Minho is wild-eyed, eyes transfixed by the scars again, reaching out for them with trembling fingers, one hand splayed on his stomach and one closed over the ones on his thigh again. The pushes of his hips are almost painful, so when he looks up at Changbin with a desperate question in his eyes, Changbin's answering nod is eager and his own eyes lined with tears.

Minho pulls out with surprising gentleness, but it clearly takes all the restraint he has, because as soon as he does he leans over Changbin, rushing himself towards the edge with his hand, Changbin leaving his own pleasure on hold to help, touching him all over, flexing his abdomen, making small, desperate noises that will have to do instead of of Changbin speaking up to tell him how beautiful he looks right at that moment - flushed hot, sweaty, biting his own lips to keep the sounds in, the hand holding him up dangerously unsteady. There's some hair stuck to his forehead, and Changbin reaches out to push it out of Minho's eyes, but his hand stills at his temple when Minho turns his head to press his lips to the skin under his wrist. It's the tattoo again. He presses one, two, three kisses against it and then he's there, pushing up into his own fist as he spills over, all over Changbin's stomach, all over his scars.

He takes a second to catch his breath but then he's lowering himself again, and this part is familiar, almost comfortable and Changbin can feel some of the sharp desire from earlier mellow out into tingling anticipation - it feels just as pleasant when it's accompanied by Minho's mouth on his skin, his lips and tongue dragging through his own mess, spreading it around, tasting it and cleaning it off in equal measure. Minho's edge is gone too, his burning wildfire now the dancing glow of a candle, glowing embers in a warm fireplace. Slower, but still consuming, still crackling and sending electric shocks all over Changbin's body, still carefully and surely eating away at him until there's nothing left. He's still barely breathing, still focusing on Minho with every single one of his senses. When Minho wraps his lips around his tip and sucks, Changbin can't help but cry out, one hand tangling in his sweaty hair while the other paws weakly at Minho's hand wrapped around his hip, hoping that Minho will understand and tangle their fingers again.

He ends up doing it at the same time as he opens his mouth wider and sinks lower, and Changbin can tell that he's crushing Minho's hand, but he doesn't react, just lets out a little groan as the fingers in his hair tighten as well, making Changbin shudder all over again, but he just works him harder, running his soft lips all over him when he needs to breathe, as if he doesn't taste like a disgusting mix of cum and lube, like he's a feast laid out just for him, like he's a flower dripping nectar from its insides.

The pleasure climbs and crests again and it gets harder and harder to keep still, so he grinds against Minho's pace, who tries to adjust to the new development without choking himself, always so well-attuned to what Changbin needs, always unravelling him like it was second nature to him, like he was made to do it, always the sun to his starving sunflower.

When he comes, it’s in Minho’s mouth, with a growling sound he didn’t even really know he could make while he crushes Minho’s fingers between his own again. Minho leaves right afterwards to find something to spit into, but Changbin doesn’t mind, basking in the feeling spreading through his chest. He feels warm, sun-kissed - the rest, all of the uncomfortable, sticky reality beyond that is only a vague blur at the edges of his consciousness. He’s split wide open, in the best way possible. Exhausted and empty on the inside and completely content.

Minho comes back, not only with his mouth empty, but also with a pack of wet wipes to try and help him manage the mess, more efficient than gentle, but Changbin appreciates the help anyway. At the moment he’s still not sure if he will ever even be able to move again.

“Are you okay?”

He blinks. Minho’s voice is raspy and quiet, not the roaring of a blazing sun. It’s gentle rays of sunlight on his face when he sleeps in with his blinds open. He could bask in it for hours.

“Hm.” He manages a nod to accompany the hum with, and it makes him feel slightly more human. Slowly, he starts to register the patches of skin where chilly air hit the wetness left behind by the wipes, along with some remaining from Minho’s mouth. It makes him want to curl up, but he doesn’t want to move yet. “Kinda cold.”

“You should probably put some clothes on then.” It’s said in a tone too soft to really be teasing. As his field of vision widens, he sees Minho follow his own advice, pulling his underwear on. Even when the haze of heat is gone, he’s too beautiful. Almost too bright to look at. Just like the sun.

“In a minute.”

Minho looks at him and Changbin burns, illuminated by his spotlight. Completely bare before him. Open for him. “Want some help with that?”

He nods weakly and he’d swear that Minho smiles at that a little before he starts looking for Changbin’s discarded clothes - if he notices Changbin staring at him the whole time, he doesn’t mention it, not even when he finds his underwear and starts to help him into it, his hands still so warm, they bring circulation into Changbin’s legs again and he finds enough strength in them to lift himself up and let his boxers slide up his hips.

Minho’s palms don’t leave his hips when he’s done helping him, though, and his eyes study Changbin’s face with the same unflinching focus that has him breathless every time. It’s the same look he stares at his scars with sometimes, sometimes it’s the look that starts the whole night for them. Changbin is so familiar with it, even the shiver down his spine is like an old friend.

“Are you like this with everyone?” Minho sounds amused but there’s no amusement in his eyes. Curiosity, maybe. Maybe something else.

Changbin doesn’t ask what he’s talking about - he’s too exhausted for banter. “I don’t sleep with anyone else.”

Minho’s eyelashes flutter with a blink, his face shifts a little but he only offers a small nod. “Can you get up?” With the question comes an offered hand.

Changbin, as always, takes it and lets Minho pull him up into a sitting position, making him wince a little bit and grunt in discomfort, but he shakes his head at Minho’s questioning look. Their hands are still touching - instead of pulling away, Minho’s fingers are pulled towards the same spot he’s been ending up at all night. On the lines of Changbin’s tattoo.

“You wouldn’t get a tattoo that didn’t mean anything.”

It comes out of nowhere and he can do nothing but stare at Minho, wide-eyed. He’s absolutely right, every single tattoo on his body has a meaning and he takes pride in that, but he never told Minho that. They kept their conversations light and teasing when their friends were around, short and efficient when they were alone. There is no way Minho knows that.

Minho tears his eyes away from the dried up snapdragon, looks into Changbin’s parched face instead - he seems startled by Changbin’s own surprise, and he looks away quickly, fingers moving away just as fast, pushing Minho’s hair back instead. “You and Chan talked about it in front of me, the night we met.”

The night they met? “And you remembered that?”

“It was interesting.” Minho looks anxious, and Changbin wonders if the reason for it is the implied “you were interesting” behind his words. His eyes still not meeting Changbin’s, fixed on his neck instead, he reaches out again, this time to trace the flames around his neck. “I’m more used to people wanting to remember the good times, not the bad.”

Changbin tilts his head, thoughtful. “I survived. That’s a good thing.” It isn’t a reminder of the fire, it is a reminder that he made it through it.

The scrutinizing look is back, and Minho’s free hand wraps around his forearm. “Is that one a survivor’s tattoo too, then?”

He thinks about it, stares at Minho hard and bites his lip. Honestly, he’s not sure yet if he will actually survive this. “It’s a reminder.”

Minho’s mouth twitches. “Of good times?”

Of the fact that he’s still capable of being wanted. Desired. Even if only for a few hours at a time. “Sort of. It’s a reminder that getting up every day is worth it just because I’ll get to feel the sun on my face again.”

It’s like Minho’s eyes are peeling his skin back with how closely they watch him. Melting it away to look at what lies underneath. “A flower’s a weird way to represent the sun.”

Changbin smiles. “It’s a metaphor - you wouldn’t get it.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at him. “Try me.”

There is no way Minho would connect the dots - is there? The strange paths Changbin’s mind takes when it comes to Minho have to be too complicated even for him to navigate, even with all the information he’s privy to.

“The flower’s not the sun - it’s wilted because it didn’t get enough sun - it’s a reminder that I don’t want to end up like that.” The flower is him. And the sun is… it was supposed to be intimacy, human closeness. A reminder to himself to not shut others out, to allow himself to want, because he’s capable of being wanted in return. He’s still capable of being intimate with someone. Being completely naked in front of someone else’s eyes.

The only problem is that by now he can’t imagine it being anyone else but Minho. Can’t imagine basking under any other sun, because he fell in love with the way Minho’s searing desert one feels on his skin.

He fell in love with Minho.

Minho, who stares at him like if he looks hard enough, he’ll find the answer to every question he’s ever posed to himself. It makes him wonder. But Minho just nods.

“You could have just gotten a tattoo of a sun.”

Changbin reaches out, and pulls Minho’s hands away from him. “It would never be as good as the real thing.”

It makes Minho snort, a strange expression crossing his face before he turns away and picks his shirt up to finally get dressed. Changbin follows his lead, tugging his shirt back on, and the room is quiet, save for the rustling of clothes until they both have their barriers back up, fully covered up again.

“I think we ruined Seungmin’s bed,” Minho remarks with his hand on the doorknob.

Changbin looks back. It’s rumpled and stained with sweat, lube and cum. The entire room stinks of what they’ve just done here. Maybe he should be ashamed, but Changbin just grins. “It’s Seungmin. Don’t tell me you actually mind making him mad.”

He expects Minho to laugh, but he just gives him a long look, then shakes his head and leaves without another word.

This time, when Changbin is left suspended, it doesn’t fill him with the thrill of anticipation. It makes him feel like he’s all alone in the darkness of outer space, slowly drifting further and further from the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you liked, what you hated, if you think Changbin is a dumbass like I do.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/d4ndyli0n) or [CC](https://curiouscat.me/d4ndyli0n) and talk MinBin with me.


End file.
